


Surrendered Only All to You

by allyoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Brainwashed victim, Choking on a Dick, F/M, Incest, Pussy Spanking, Rapey patriarchal dystopia, Religiously-motivated rape, Ritual Defloration, Slapping, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops
Summary: There isn’t a girl in the community who doesn’t understand her place in it. But even after a lifetime of preparation, it’s natural to feel a little unequal to the demands of one’s special role in the Ceremony.
Relationships: Teenage girl/Male relatives initiating her to womanhood
Comments: 26
Kudos: 159
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Surrendered Only All to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [praxyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/praxyn/gifts).



“I declare, Melody, I don’t know where I went wrong with you.” Mother looked at me sideways from the kitchen sink, but even in profile I could see her consternation. “You’re very lucky your uncle was not here to hear that. He’d be well within his rights to demand satisfaction here and now.”

There’s only one type of satisfaction Uncle Wade intends to claim from my flesh, so I did not trouble to contradict her. Instead I fidgeted, and chopped the heads off the beans, and let her lecture.

“Your father will be mightily displeased with you. To hear you speak of his own brother—his elder brother—in such a way is simply unthinkable.”

It was probably unthinkable for Mother. She was the eldest daughter of an eldest son, so there had been no trouble over the particulars of her ceremony. Not that she’s ever shared them, of course—not in the way we girls do, when we are given a moment to ourselves to sneak away and whisper of the trial to come, all agog with fearful wonder at what it might be like for us on the night—but I can fill in the blanks as well as any other. I don’t imagine Mother ever troubled herself over an uncle.

She’d no cause to.

But my father is the second son, and Uncle Wade has no girl children. Only four boys, each one as thick as a tree trunk and more uncouth than the last, three of whom are mercifully unmarried as of yet, so do not qualify to join us for my Ceremony. So as Father’s senior, he naturally has certain rights of precedence he is entitled to claim, and I was all too sure he intended to claim them of me.

I’d made the mistake of airing my grievance to Mother, who at once tore a strip off me with her tongue, and was tearing still, promising that Father would take it from my hide directly he came home from work and learned what an ungrateful girl I had been.

I did not mind Mother’s lectures. It’s really the only time I get to hear her speak, since she is mindful of her place whenever Father is around, and does not like to make her feelings known since he is so considerate of them in the usual way that she grieves his unwillingness to really take command.

I know she would like him to beat her more, though I do not know why. Clover says it’s just Mother’s way; that she would have been happiest wed to a man like John Clyde, or Uncle Wade, whose wives are often brought into the Gathering house with shuffling gait or hair arranged oddly, so as to cover whatever part of her face has swollen in answer to his chastisement. Father is not such a man, though I would dare any who did not know him to once call him weak, and they will soon learn it is not that my father cannot make his fist felt, it is only that he does not often care to.

I don’t understand why Mother wishes he swung at her more, but Clover seems to. She explained it to me as Mother’s longing for his mark of authority on her, which I think I can understand. It’s the same way the girls walk into Gathering the morning after their Ceremony, all stiff legged and whimpering to sit down, but still flushed red and rosy with pride at knowing they have borne it all bravely and can call themselves women at last.

This is what I would like to do, of course, as much as any girl, but I do not want to walk in and know I wince and whimper because of Uncle Wade. I would infinitely rather it be my own father, and I think he would prefer it too, but of course it is not his place to say. The laws are very strict about eldest sons and their right of place over the younger; if Uncle Wade had only even one daughter of his own, Father might petition to claim me first and expect to be heard, but as it stands Uncle Wade is not likely to tolerate the indignity of waiting for his younger brother’s younger girl.

Which is monstrously unfair! Clover wouldn’t mind. She would be glad of any man making his will on her, just like Mother. But she’s three years my junior, and there’s no hope of Uncle Wade contenting himself to wait even one.

He’s famously impatient in that way.

“You should be grateful,” Mother muttered, having moved on to checking the roast and skewering it with particular viciousness. “Grateful to have four men willing to offer their protection of you. And your grandfather presiding! My grandfather died a decade before my Ceremony, and I had to have Dr. Waller! I’d have been the happiest girl in the world if my grandfather had lived long enough to—”

I let the noise wash over me like the waves of the tide. Ebb and flow. Mother’s voice, washing the will from my throat, from my chest where the root of pride was known to roost. Mother’s chastisement, abrasive scolding, scrubbing the wayward daughter until she shone pink and virgin-white, an ideal creature shining in the hope of her own fulfillment at the hands of any man who deigned to offer his mastery of her.

Including Uncle Wade.

I know I’ll never be the girl my mother wishes I were, but I do hate to know that I will never be made a woman by my father’s will, and I was still brooding over that when he came in the door.

Clover was first to meet him, since she had been given the hallway rugs to do and she’s always slow with linens. She lacks the proper follow-through with the swing. She had only just whisked the runner back into place when Father’s step sounded on the threshold and the beautiful rich warmth of his voice filled the space.

“What, my flower on her knees? Such industry! My girl, I do not know if I should praise you for your diligence or scold you for your overwork.”

“I will take whatever lecture my father sees fit to give me,” Clover promised, and I could hear the forlorn hope in her voice, for Father so rarely scolds as to make the occasional beating he does dole out as unlikely as snow in summer.

“I will give you the lecture you long for, sweet bud,” he rejoined, “when next my temper grows short. How do you like that?”

“It will serve, Father,” she decided. I itched to join them, but Mother had directed me, with a flick of the finger, to cover the table with the fresh cloth so I was busy in this manner when he entered, and did not turn until he was pressed up behind me, warm and solid, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“And here is my heart’s own song,” he murmured, “unusually quiet for once. My Melody, what has stilled your tongue?”

I turned around to return the hug just in time to see him chase Mother’s bustling figure with a questioning glance. Mother would not tell him until she had worked out a way to do so as sweetly and with as few words as possible, so I thought to relieve her of the mental burden.

“It’s my Ceremony, Father. About Uncle—”

“Ah!” Mother spun on me, still in a fit of pique sufficient to overrule her desire to keep as sweet was possible in the presence of her husband. “My girl. One more word—”

“Tchah,” Father sighed, drawing back. The clatter of my younger sisters’ footsteps sounded near the back of the house, and soon they would be on us. One does not ordinarily discuss the Ceremony on any detail with the very youngest, save to tell them what a great honor awaits when they reach the age, so I knew there would not be any long talk of it now. On the strength of this, I risked making my plea.

“Is there really no way—no way at all, you could persuade him to wait? Do you think?”

“Melody,” Father sighed, and I hated the way he looked at me then, like I had grieved him in his very heart and soul. Clover and Mother may long for a beating, but much as I hate the blows I would gladly take them any day over seeing Father look at me like that.

“Father, please—”

A violent crash shocked me into silence. Mother had slammed the oven door with such ferocity I half expected the roast to leap from the pan and make a bid for its freedom. She turned on me with menace in her face.

“NOT in front of your sisters.”

Before I could argue that they weren’t here yet, they were. All four of them, Clover leading the troop, to tackle Father and kiss him and bid him welcome home. Charity ran to fetch his slippers, Angelica his pipe, and little Willow tugged his hand to bid him follow her through to the parlor and his very favorite chair, which Clover would have just pushed up to the fire, for it has been a chilly spring and we are not yet beyond needing such a thing to keep us warm of a night.

This left me to finish laying table, prisoner of my mother’s chilly silence, and no more was said of my unseemly rebellion until after the supper meal had been made, sat down to, and consumed in its entirety.

Father’s praise of Mother’s work followed warmly forth at the end of the meal, and Mother blushed under the onslaught. He continued in turn to each of us, lavishing us with verbal reward according to our duties and completion of them, stinting nothing in his praise until at last he came to me.

Here he dimmed somewhat in his enthusiasm, and after rewarding me with thanks for serving my mother’s kitchen needs and naming the three other chores assigned me that day, he concluded, “but I hear there may be cause for chastisement.”

I fell quite still and guilty under his stare. If there is nobody’s praise I love more than Father’s, there is nobody’s scolding that gives me greater shame. Father loves me like nobody else ever will. To disappoint him is to grieve my own heart, and I hate it as I hate nothing else.

My younger sisters looked up in poorly-concealed interest. Father rarely chastises us, and almost never has he had cause to scold me. I sat silent and ashamed of his disappointment, while he called on Mother to make my disobedient heart known to all.

“She has been ungrateful,” Mother said firmly.

“Ingratitude is an ugly thing, but not a sin,” Father said mildly. “If I am to strike my daughter it must be for sin.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mother agreed. “But her ingratitude is for her position as your daughter. This is rebellion, is it not?”

The horror that rippled round the table was no more than I deserved. To rebel against your father is, we all knew, the worst imaginable sin. We’ve all known it since we were old enough to know anything at all. Father’s job is to guide and protect us, and our job is to follow him in obedience until we are given over to full womanhood, and marriage thereafter. To rebel against the natural order is unthinkable, and Mother was accusing me of something grave indeed.

Even Father looked shaken. He did not accuse Mother of maligning me, but he did look askance in my direction.

“Melody, what can your mother mean by this?”

I shrunk in on myself, wrapping my arms around my own waist as I tried to think of a way to put my desire and fear into terms that would not shame me, or him.

“My Ceremony is tomorrow, Father.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Uncle Wade . . .” I looked sideways to where my sisters sat with heads bowed over empty plates, listening ferociously. “He has first claim on me.”

Father shifted in his seat.

“As my elder brother it is his right. He has expressed his intent to exercise it, yes.”

“Does he have to?” it came bursting out of me on a wet and awful thing like a sob. “Father, does he have to?”

“Melody!” Mother gasped, appalled. My sisters looked at me in similar shock.

“Oh but Melody it’s a blessing!” Charity gasped, as though I had not heard all the same lessons she had done, every night from our parents and every Gathering besides. “You know it is! Some girls have only one or two men to honor them, but we have four! Isn’t that a great gift, Mother?”

“The greatest gift,” Mother agreed. “Any girl would think herself fortunate to be so favored. And our Melody—” she broke off despairingly, and shook her head.

I did not dare to look at Father until he bade me. My vision swam with tears when I lifted my gaze to his face. He stared at me a very long moment, then spoke.

“Leave us.”

My sisters got up at once. Mother remained, until Father turned his gaze on her and she, with some surprise, rose too.

Then we were alone in the kitchen, just Father at the head of the table and I at his left hand.

He reached out and took my hand in his.

“Melody, you surprise me. This is so unlike you. It is usually your heart’s delight to obey your father. That obedience gives me joy. What has brought this on in you?”

I fought back the flood of tears that threatened as I answered.

“I will not shame you, Father. I will not. I will yield to all of you, I give my word. I know it is an honor to be so favored. Only . . . only Father,” I lifted my gaze to him at last, begging him with my tears to understand, “I want to yield to you first. You see? Uncle Wade may demand of me all he would have, but I want it to be after. After you have . . .” But the exact mechanism and its terminology is forbidden us until the Ceremony, so I could not express it better.

Thankfully, Father seemed to hear me at last. His own face softened and a smile, warm and gentle, chased the lingering traces of hardness away. He took both my hands in his.

“Ahh. I see it now. Well, then.” He squeezed my hands. “You would have me know you first. Is that it, Melody?”

“Yes, Father. More than anything, I want . . . yes.”

He squeezed my hands reassuringly, and for a moment hope rose wild and bright within me. But then he shook his head in sorrow, and dashed it to bits.

“My dear girl. This is not rebellion, exactly, I will own it. But it is insubordination and it is a rejection of the natural order. God over man over woman over child. You know it as well as anyone, Melody, and I will need to remind you of your place in short order.

“More than that, though, you must understand that Wade has a right of authority over me. Not as absolute as mine over you, but there is an order to these things, and it must be observed. If he would cede his place to me, it would be one thing. I would not deprive him of that which he freely gave. But your Ceremony is something he has long anticipated, and he has made it clear to me that he intends to take his right.”

This was awful news. Even hearing it from Father made it so much more final; absolute.

When Father spoke, it was as law. So to hear him say that he would not plead my case to Uncle Wade was the last glimmer of my hope undone, and there was nothing left for it but to cry.

Father left me with a gentle pat on my shoulder, and must have sent Mother down with very clear instructions because she returned to me in a much gentler frame of mind, and even gave me some minutes to collect myself before we cleared the table, and she said I had better send Clover to help her wash.

“Your father will be waiting,” she said meaningly.

I understood.

* * *

He was in the little prayer room at the back of the house: the one every home has set aside for all meaningful acts of worship, including chastisement. For when a girl surrenders to her father, it is an act of obedience to God, and best conducted in a state of perfect holiness.

Father was waiting for me there, staring out the window over the back fields.

“It is not often we meet in here for reasons other than prayer,” he said, after I had closed the door behind me.

“No, Sir.”

“Tomorrow night the Ceremony will take place here, as well.”

I nodded.

“But tonight,” he turned to smile sadly at me, “you are a child still, and given unto me to raise in accordance with the will and dictates of natural law.”

I had already bent over the low, long bench in the middle of the room when he reached me. My skirt was raised easily enough, and the drawers beneath that lowered just as fast.

Father does not strike with a belt. I know from what my friends say that he is not alone in that, but he is also not in much company. Only two other fathers that I know of deliver chastisement with bare hands, and I cannot work out if it is better or not, to know that your father permits no pain be visited on you save that which he administers entirely himself.

Father’s hand was warm and strong, and he brought it down with authority. It was a great feat to keep quiet and still under the slap of his palm on my flesh. I know he does not like to see me cry, but he does like to hear us pray, so I tried to make my thanks through the spanking, whispering my gratitude to God for giving me such a father, so steady and strong, so willing to guide us in accordance with our natures and his.

“Thank you,” I kept whimpering, after each slap. “Thank you for his authority over me.”

By the time Father had given me twenty blows, he was breathing heavily and the room felt uncomfortably close and warm. A deep fever seemed to have kindled in my lower belly, and I found it very hard to think straight. I had just presence of mind enough to lift my gaze to Father’s when he moved around the punishment bench to stand in front of me.

“Thank you,” I whimpered. “Thank you for my punishment.”

“God forgive you for earning it,” he replied, which was the end of that ritual, so I was free to stand again.

Father hugged me then, as he always does, and rubbed one hand gently over my abused bottom.

“My poor, brave girl,” he sighed. “What a trial it is, to be a woman, eh? But you have always given me such pleasure, Melody. It has always been a privilege to know I am your father. And soon enough I will know you completely. Try not to burden yourself too much with this prejudice against my brother, if you can help it. It will do you no good, my girl, you must see that.”

I squirmed. Father raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Melody?”

The plea came rushing out of me all in a jumble, apologetic and tearful and hopeful at once.

“Is there really no way, Father? No way he would consent . . . that is, I should gladly submit myself to him, you know I would. Will. I don’t want to rebel, Father, I would never deny his claim. Only if he would ever see his way clear to making his claim _after_ you . . . .”

Father was already shaking his head. He did not look angry, but sorrowful, and it gave me greater pain than his palm to see it.

“No, my girl.” He set his hand, heavy, gentle, on my shoulder. “He is most determined to make first claim of you. It has been . . .” he hesitated. “A subject of conversation, these past few months.” Father’s lips thinned, then softened into an apologetic smile. “He is looking forward to it.”

I did not feel there could be any hope for me, then. It must have shown on my face, for Father put out his arms and I went into them gladly. He let me rest my face on his shoulder for a moment’s comfort, then hugged me and said, “It would perhaps be as well if you did not disclose your reluctance to him.”

I readily agreed. It would not be seemly to tell Uncle Wade I did not desire his claim on me. It might even be insubordinate, and the idea of interrupting my own Ceremony to receive another spanking—possibly even a beating, if Uncle Wade administered it—did not appeal.

I pressed my mouth to Father’s shirt pocket and breathed in the smell of him. I tried to find comfort in his strength, as I have always been taught.

“I will be good,” I whispered. He held me tighter.

“My girl. I know it.”

* * *

Gathering before a Ceremony is always a special event. Clothing must be more than usually clean, our appearance more than ordinarily neat and circumspect. No ornamentation is ever allowed in the Gathering house, but when I was a very little girl there was a special convening of the Elders to give permission that hair might be braided, and so most of us who do not have hair which curls naturally are wont to plait ours on the day of Ceremony. Of course we can’t draw attention to the fact that it is plaited, so kerchiefs of especially great size are always secured over top, but you can tell all the same by the way a girl holds her head. Clover, beside me, was practically tossing hers like an unbroken horse as we fell into step behind Father and walked in the door.

“Be still,” was Mother’s final, muttered warning, just before we stepped across the threshold and she fell abruptly silent, as befits all women in church.

We found our seats on the women’s side, but I was given special consideration to sit on the aisle today, for I would need to approach the altar for my blessing. It was very strange to be on the aisle seat: the first time since I was a babe held in Mother’s arms. My girl cousins squirmed and shuffled on the bench by the window until Aunt Esther gave them each a sound pinching to settle their bones. All my male relations were in the pew across the aisle, with Grandpa sitting at the outermost, then Uncle Wade beyond him, Father beyond that, then Cousin Enoch, who is wed, and my unwed uncles and cousins further on, and so on down to Cousin Benjy, who had only just begun to walk, and so was now old enough to leave the lap of his mother and join the menfolk in their pew.

There was the usual bass and baritone rumble from that side of the room, and the soft, subtle whisper of fabric rustling on ours, until at last Elder Jacob ascended to the square wood block of the altar and invoked our humility in full view of the Lord.

Gathering follows the same pattern every time, so there is often opportunity to steal little peeks and glances around the room under cover of doing what one is meant to, which in my case is almost always nothing at all. Even today, which is surely the most momentous of my life until the day I stand to be wed, I was able to pick out a few familiar faces in the crowd and make my assessment of them.

Nattie Ambrose is my age, and she looked very pink and well indeed, three pews in front of ours. No wonder, that. Nattie is an only child, to her mother’s great shame, and both her parents have sisters only, so there is only her father for her to please. Mr. Ambrose is a very quiet man, not given to great emotion, so there was no expectation that she would be obliged much beyond the minimum when he took her to bed tonight.

Amaranth Buckley, on the other hand, sat at her pew’s edge looking like doom had come upon her. Amaranth has six uncles and five older brothers, four of them wed. Her grandfather even has a living brother, but he had ceded his claim on her, small mercy as it was. Amaranth would be obliged to make pains to satisfy all thirteen of them before morning’s light, and it was her very particular plight which inspired me to keep as humble and grateful as I could that I, at least, should not be so rudely taxed, and would in any event have a few hours’ respite before the bell rang for morning chores.

As soon as the thought fully formed in my mind, I flushed at the ingratitude of it.

Respite! What a word. As though I saw as a trial my great privilege of surrendering to Father and the other men in my life whose greatest burden was to guide and protect me until they placed me safely in the protection of my husband. It was unseemly to see it thus, and I was uneasily conscious of the flickering glances of the other girls in the room, girls like me at the end of the aisle, awaiting their summons to prayer. Could they see my own ingratitude? Sense it? I felt certain they must. The stabbing, silent knives of their gaze brought out hot prickles down my neck.

I bowed my head quickly, and gave myself over to prayer.

It was not until Elder Jacob spoke our family name that I stirred from my posture of submission. Father stood almost at once, a little too soon, for he should have waited until Uncle Wade had helped Grandfather to his feet before rising to his. But fathers are nervous this day too, or so they say. I risked a very fleeting glance at his face, hoping he could sense my respect and honor, and would be strengthened by it.

When all my married male kinfolk had reached their feet, I was allowed to rise to mine. They walked behind me to the front of the altar, the first and only time in my life I would advance in the church before them. Even at my wedding time, Father would walk beside me, giving me the strength of his arm to lean on before he placed my hand in that of another. Today and today alone did I go before, an offering to the holiness of my own calling, a symbol of my ready surrender to their will and the will of God.

“A young woman well protected,” Elder Jacob smiled down on me, and the men took up their positions behind and beside, all five strong and ready; sure.

“She is,” said Father. He set his hand on my shoulder, and I was warmed and strengthened by his touch. Then Uncle Wade set a hand on my other, which I am sure was meant as encouragement also, but I could not help quailing inwardly at his touch. Tonight that hand would be the first to claim me, and God help me, I did not want it.

I do not think I betrayed my reluctance in any outward way, but Elder Jacob looked at me very hard just then, as though some deeper instinct spoke to him of my rebellion. And since he is an oracle of the most high, I suppose it very well could have.

I bowed my head and hoped my Father would mistake the gesture for one of piety, instead of shame.

“A special blessing, I think,” Elder Jacob said gently. “This is truly a momentous event for any young woman, and the demands of the night can be . . . considerable. I ask that your heart will be inclined to the men whose job it is to guide you, and that your obedience be pleasing to them as unto your maker.”

“Amen,” murmured all the men around me. I bobbed my head in the accepted gesture of agreement, and my heart echoed his plea.

If my heart also begged even now for Uncle Wade to cede his claim and give Father the first right of me, I cannot say, for I did not dare acknowledge it.

* * *

At Gathering’s end the men of each family stood to depart, followed by their women. Once outside in the open air, the littlest girls broke into running tumbles just as the little boys did, and noisy laughter rose up around us. Willow went off capering with her little friends, but Mother held firm to Angelica’s hand. Angelica squirmed unhappily, but did not otherwise struggle. At eight she was still young enough to long to run, but old enough that it would not be modest to do it in mixed company.

Father and Mother stopped in chat with some neighbors and friends, as people tend to do after Gathering. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, with Nattie between them, paused to congratulate Father and he smiled warmly at them both.

“And you as well.” He turned his smile on Nattie, who contrived to look very modest and demure, dropping her gaze from his. “A good evening to you, Miss Annette. Your father will have every cause for joy, I have no doubt.”

The brittle scorn I often entertain for Nattie was replaced with a knot of envy deep in my stomach. Nattie’s father would have every cause for joy, but Nattie would, too. She would have the privilege of giving herself entirely to him, with no uncles onlooking or usurping his place of precedence. And when he walked her to her husband, it would only ever be they two who shared that special knowledge of her.

Lucky Nattie.

I drooped against Father’s side without entirely realizing it. He would have been within his rights to chide me for it, but instead in a rare gesture of public demonstrativeness he set his arm around my waist, and bore me up. The warm, encircling strength of him bled into my bones, and I stood a little straighter under his arm.

Other families stopped to talk with us too, and congratulations were offered, as they usually are on Ceremony days. Mother murmured her thanks with eyes downcast, and Father spoke with confidence of my virtues and my general readiness for marriage. As the gathering crowd at last began to thin, Uncle Wade stopped in front of us to clasp Father’s hand and nod to Mother.

“What time should we expect you?” Father wondered. He was directing his query to Grandfather, who was supported by my cousins.

“Well,” Grandfather squinted, “what time does your wife serve dinner?”

“What time does any wife serve dinner?” Uncle Wade rejoined, good humored. “When her husband is hungry, of course!”

Appreciative laughter rolled through the group, and Father smiled.

“You are welcome to join us for our family meal, of course,” he said, but Grandfather was already waving the invitation away.

“Not a thing a man likes to do on a full stomach,” he said. “Makes him sluggish. I had it in mind we’d be out of the house by that time, actually. What d’you say, Bill?”

Father replied, after a hesitation so brief any who did not know him well might not even have marked it.

“Ceremony before nightfall? Of course, Sir. A very intelligent proposition.”

Grandfather shrugged away my father’s approval.

“I’m an old man, William. I like to get into bed at a decent hour, these days. And I am sure,” he cast a friendly twinkle my way, “the young lady will be given ample cause to be glad of a night’s long rest, when she’s through. Hey?”

I looked down, as would be expected of me, and smiled politely at my shoes. The conversation continued around me, and the schedule was worked out. We would go home, and they would meet us there inside of an hour. This would give Mother and Clover time enough to settle the younger girls with separate amusements, and allow the men sufficient peace and quiet to focus on their task.

* * *

When we arrived home Mother hustled the others through a cold lunch for which I had little appetite. Father disappeared out back, and Mother said if I would not eat, I should go and tidy myself before our guests arrived.

I was as glad of this excuse to flee as any other, so I retired to make a kind of bath for myself, washing and combing and tidying myself in accordance with my usual habits, and Father’s preference.

Some men are very strict about the colors and dressing of hair they permit their wives and daughters, but Father has always given us a freer rein in this way. He insists only that we be as covered as modesty demands, and presentable at all times. Yet he did once confide in Mother, within my hearing, that he thought her hair was more becoming when some of it was loose around her face to frame it, so I had since then always taken care to style my own hair in a manner similar to that style he had preferred.

It gave me a wicked thrill of rebellion to arrange my hair in that manner now, knowing that it was for Father’s preference I did it, and not that of Uncle Wade. I drew soft, sandy waves down to frame my face, operating as always without the benefit of a looking glass. To preen is vanity. Only one glass exists in the house, directly beside the front door. Tidyness is expected of the family when we are in public, to reflect well on Father, but admiring ourselves in the privacy of the bath room is unconscionable.

After arranging my hair, it occurred to me to change my dress. There was nothing terribly wrong with my Gathering dress, but I knew Father liked the color blue, and dresses with color are not allowed in the Gathering house. I hurried across the hall to our room, empty of all except our furniture, and opened our narrow cupboard. Two of my dresses are blue, and I hesitated to choose between them. The solid, pale blue was one which Father had complimented me on at least twice, but the darker blue, relieved by a pattern of minute white dots, was the one I had been wearing when his eyes rested on me rather longer than was his wont, and an expression I had not fully understood came into his face.

Somehow, the memory of that expression made the choice an easy one. I reached for the dot-print dress without any further hesitation. It was the work of only moments to whisk off the plain gray Gathering dress, but of course I took another moment to tidy it, and arrange it neatly on the peg. It was during the completion of this act that a great, thumping knock echoed up from the lower floor, and I recognized at once my Grandfather’s hand of authority on the panels of our front door.

They were here! And I was not even dressed. What shame would this bring on Father, to summon me and find me so lacking? I fairly flew through the final act of dressing, pulling the blue and white print dress over my head and racing back down the hall to the prayer room, the murmured rumble of male greeting floating up the stairs and chasing me down the hall as I ran.

Once in the prayer room I hastened to settle myself on the bench. I passed my hands mechanically over the folds and fastenings of my gown, joining these in order as best I could while I tried to arrange my thoughts in an attitude of pious preparation.

I had not long to wait before I heard the tread of a foot on the stair. The upper floor would be ours without interruption until the hour my sisters took their beds. Thereafter the men would have free use of me until sunrise, but from what Grandfather had said it sounded as if they would not be exercising this option.

I was not certain if this boded well or ill for me. Surely I should regret their early departure? If I were properly surrendered to Father’s will, shouldn’t I desire the duration of my ceremony be observed? But perhaps I am not as good as I should be, because knowing that they intended to leave before supper gave me nothing but relief.

Cold comfort it was, though, when I saw the handle turn and the door swung in to admit my male relations.

They ranged out to stand before me in a line, shoulder to shoulder, and I knew I should rise to greet them but suddenly there was no sensation in my legs. Instead I clasped my hands in my lap, and bowed my head.

Uncle Wade chuckled.

“Last chance to play the maid, eh?” he said. And it was strange for me to discover I suddenly understood what he meant: that whatever happened to me in this room, when next I left it I would no longer be the person I was when I entered.

It was ungodly fear which gripped me then. I looked to Father in terror and I saw pity and resignation and some strange, foreign thing all chase each other across his face. The last look, the new one, lingered longest, and it did not unsettle me but it did make my face heat. Then Grandfather cleared his throat and I directed my attention to him.

“Melody, we have joined in prayer before joining you. We have sought and received your father’s approval for our plan for you this evening. Now there is only an interview which remains. Answer me honestly, as before God and all your Earthly authorities, and you need have no fear.”

I clasped my hands tighter, and nodded.

“Good. Now, I must ask you, granddaughter, if any man has touched your body before tonight.”

“Only Father,” I whispered. 

“This is a fitting answer. Name the parts of your body he has touched.”

This was a short list. My hand, of course, and my brow and neck. My waist. My backside, in chastisement. These I named and the gestures, at Grandfather’s request, described. He seemed satisfied.

“And you are certain no other has touched you? Nor your father touched any other part of your body you have held back, either at his request or in order to safeguard your modesty?”

“No, Grandfather,” I whispered.

“It is well,” Grandfather said. Then he nodded to Father, who cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Melody, your grandfather is here in the position of overseer, and as such he will not demand you yield to him. He has asked, however, that you undress before him, and arrange yourself according to his will.”

This was more difficult than I had imagined. I had not, somehow, known that I was to undress for the ceremony. The dress was difficult to remove, as my hands were shaking and nobody offered to help with the buttons. When the top opened, and my chest was bared, the air in the room seemed to change. The men breathed all together, and my face got hot.

“It’s well done, Melody,” Grandfather said. He stepped forward and lifted my breasts. Nobody had touched them before. I didn’t know how I was supposed to act, and looked beseechingly to Father.

Grandfather smiled.

“She seeks your guidance, Bill. Look at her. Your firstborn, her heart so perfectly surrendered that she wants her father to tell her what to do when a man touches her breast.”

Father had the same look on his face he had when he saw me in the blue print dress. I did not know its name, but I know it spoke to something inside me that had belonged to him since before I could remember. I would do whatever Father said, no matter what, but for the first time I understood something in that place inside me was what made me want to.

“Thank him, Melody,” Father whispered. So I looked at Grandfather’s hand, gnarled and tweaking the pale pink tip of my breast, and struggled to muster the gratitude required for sincerity.

“Thank you,” I said, but between the words he gave a hard twist, so the ‘you’ cracked. My gratitude was imperfect. I flinched, cleared my throat, and repeated more clearly, “Th-thank you.”

“She takes pain well,” Uncle Wade noted, approvingly. Father nodded.

“Melody has always been pleasing to me,” he said. They spoke of me as if I were not there, which helped a great deal. I did not know how to act toward men since it is not seemly for a girl to act in any way toward them at all.

When Grandfather stepped back and said, “lower your undergarments, Melody, and raise your skirt,” it was a relief to obey.

That my skirt had always been something I kept lowered for the sake of modesty did not seem at odds with this order. In here I was theirs to command, and whatever they bade me do was right. To refuse any order was a sin, as I had been taught from my very earliest memory. This, baring my body to their gaze, was all well and good because they willed it. That much, at least, I understood very well.

The sight of my bottom half bared to them made the air change again. Uncle Wade shifted his feet against the floor boards, as if he was uncomfortable. Cousin Enoch’s breath came a little faster through his nose. And Father . . . I looked at him the longest. He was looking at me as he had never looked at anybody in my presence. As if he did not want to stop.

I did not want him to stop.

“What do you call this part of yourself, Melody?” Grandfather asked. He put his hand out and touched me at the very top of the place my legs joined. I struggled to understand the question.

“It . . . I know it by no name, Sir. My mother said it is not for me to speak of.”

“She is correct. It is only for men to demand, and you to offer. When we speak of yielding to a man, it is in this manner that you yield. Tonight you offer us all we would have you give. You offer it with as little complaint and as much joy as possible, unless,” his gaze flickered sideways, to the point where Uncle Wade stood waiting, “it pleases somebody to see you other than joyful.”

It had not occurred to me until now that I could please a man by making clear my reluctance to yield to his desire. Father had so always warmly praised my obedience I had imagined every man must take joy in the same. But of course, if some women desired their men be more frequently displeased by them, it seemed a fitting balance that there must also be men who desired to see their women reluctant to obey.

This understanding did more to advance my knowledge than the act of baring my body itself. I looked to Father, so he could see my understanding, then I looked to Uncle Wade.

I could please him, I realized. I could please him with my own unwillingness. He would doubtless give me greater pain the moment I gave him cause, but in its own way this would be giving him pleasure.

“Does it please Uncle Wade not to see my joy?” I asked softly. Grandfather cleared his throat.

“Wade?”

“It pleases me to have you first,” Uncle Wade said shortly, but this seemed an incomplete answer. It was cousin Enoch, silent until now, who volunteered the explanation.

“Father likes to make himself felt. Forceful men often do. The first time you yield . . . there will be pain. Father wishes to cause it.”

I had rather imagined there would always be pain, so to hear that it might only be the first time was quite a relief. And to know Uncle Wade desired to give me that pain, though it did not make me desire to yield to him, made me feel as though I had gained some manner of womanhood even before they demanded their way of me.

“Do—” Grandfather hesitated. “Do you have any questions, Melody?”

I shook my head. I answered Grandfather but was looking at Father when I said,

“No. I know you will guide me in all things.”

Grandfather smiled. “She is a good girl, Bill.”

“No such thing,” Wade opined. “But,” he nodded gruffly at Father, “she’s well trained. I don’t deny it.”

Then he stepped forward and Grandfather’s presence seemed to fall away. All at once it was Uncle Wade looming over me, his stare burning my skin, and his voice that rumbled in my skull as he said, “get that dress off.”

I removed it as swiftly as I was able, but it was not swift enough. When I was bare he slapped my face and I reeled back against the bench.

“When I give an order, girl, I expect obedience. If you think you are quick to obey, think less and obey me quicker. Now bend over the bench.”

I fairly flung myself facedown onto the bench. That I had instinctively assumed the punishment position, rather than simply taking a seat, did not dawn on me until I heard his appreciative chuckle.

“Not bad,” he said, then contradicted the praise by striking my bottom with such a vicious crack that I could not help it—I cried out.

He groaned, soft and deep in his throat, at the sound of my scream. Then he grunted,

“Did your father not teach you how a girl is to keep her mouth shut til bade to open it?”

The slight against my father chilled me. How dare he? How dare my uncle usurp my father’s place at the punishment bench, in my Ceremony, and then speak ill of him to me? I was speechless at last, but with cold, shaking fury. The very nerve! To disrespect my father in his own home.

Then the next slap came and I writhed, but kept silent, refusing to give him cause to malign Father again.

“She does not spread her legs,” Wade noted.

“It is not part of my requirements,” Father said quietly. Wade huffed.

“You’ve never once touched . . ?”

“No.”

“A very fair minded man, is Bill,” Grandfather said quietly. “Though a father has the authority to handle his child in pursuit of discipline, there are some forms of contact which should be saved for the Ceremony. Your brother honors your place of precedence, Wade.”

The direction of his voice indicated he had taken a seat along the wall, and observed from a distance, per his role. Wade grunted his acknowledgment of Father’s princely generosity. Then,

“Spread your legs, Melody.”

I did, with effort. The punishment bench made it difficult, but I managed to get my feet about a shoulder width apart. The stuffy closeness of the room was not proof against my most private place feeling cold and exposed in this way. When the next slap came I leaped to the very tips of my toes—Uncle Wade had struck me _there_.

“Is that the first time a man has touched you here?” he demanded, and when I could not immediately control my tears to give my answer, he caught me by the hair and twisted my head around to force me to meet his gaze.

“Answer, girl.”

“Yes Sir,” I whimpered.

“As it should be,” he said, and released me so suddenly I reeled against the bench.

It took all my effort, all my understanding that my obedience and compliance would reflect well on Father, to suffer the mastery Uncle Wade demonstrated over my body. He beat my backside until I wept freely. Only when breath clutched around my every sob and his own breathing grew labored did he at last draw back.

“Thank me,” he barked.

I wept harder.

“Thank me, you ungrateful whore!” he thundered, and the blow came again, right between my legs, so pain lit me up like a knife and I shrieked.

“Thank you!” It came out high, shaky and terrible, but it was obedience. I still had obedience to offer. “Thank you for my punishment S-sir.”

“God forgive you for making me desire it,” he grunted. Then, “Turn around. Get on your knees.”

Mindful of his demand for obedience I dropped as quick as gravity could claim me, but even gravity did not suit the exacting demands of Uncle Wade. He slapped me again, and I rocked sideways. I would have stayed down til he bade me rise but instead he caught my hair in his fist and hauled me up on his own strength.

“Get your mouth open and keep it like that.”

I opened my mouth as wide as I could, until my eyes watered and my face flushed. His breath came quicker, and I saw him fumble with the button at the front of his trousers.

He pulled forth a shaft of flesh that was hard and thick. I did not even have time to wonder at it before he advanced on me and the thing was thrust into my mouth.

I had not the warning I needed to draw breath, so I choked at his entry and gurgled frantically around his flesh. He did not withdraw, but caught my hair, loose round my face, to prevent my acting on instinct and jerking back.

“You might explain yourself to her, Wade,” Grandfather said mildly. “She will be better able to obey you if she knows what you ask.”

“She will learn faster if she gets it wrong,” Uncle Wade predicted. As if in proof of his point, he drove the thing deep into my throat, so I gagged and my bottom teeth scraped the underside of his punishing flesh.

At once he cracked me on top of the head and barked, “no teeth, damn you!”

The air in the room changed again and Father said, quite dangerously, “Wade.”

To damn somebody—anybody—is blasphemy. Only God can damn a soul. Uncle Wade mumbled, apologetically, “Sorry, Bill.”

His thrusts had abated during this exchange, which gave me vital time to catch my breath and collect my wits. I did not understand the purpose of his using my mouth, but my role seemed clear enough: to accept his flesh and its demands until he reached whatever conclusion he desired. I braced my palms against my thighs and struggled to open wider, the better to accommodate him. I would not shame Father by my hesitation. There had been no real pain to speak of, beyond the blows and the slight discomfort in my throat, so I imagined we were very far from done. Better to get used to it now, and endure.

Certainly Uncle Wade seemed intent on giving me much to get used to. His fingers tangled in my hair and tears pooled at the corner of my eyes. He smiled at the sight, and shoved himself deeper into my throat. I gagged on him, and retched. His smile deepened.

“Hold your breasts,” he grunted, between thrusts. “Show them to me. Pinch the nipples.”

I fumbled to find space in the rhythm of my breathing to obey. My breasts I cupped, and held up as an offering. I squeezed the tips between my fingers. He grunted.

“Harder.”

I pinched harder, and whimpered around his pistoning flesh at the pain he bade me cause. His movements stuttered, then picked up speed.

“Whore,” he growled. “Offering yourself to me. Damnable temptress—”

Father stirred again, but since Uncle Wade had only described me, and not damned me himself, this did not warrant objection. It was deeply crude and not the kind of language one often used, but it was not heresy.

“Look at me,” Uncle Wade grunted. I could not move my head, it was the prisoner of his demands, but I lifted my eyes to his. He must have read in them my fear and loathing, for I saw in his gaze a dark and fierce satisfaction at what he beheld in me.

“Whore,” he rasped again. “Only harlots offer their flesh to men in this way. Look at you—loving this! Rub yourself, bitch. Touch between your legs and see your nature there.”

I did not understand but I did as he said. My private place was wet and furred and . . . I did not understand.

“Rub it,” he growled. “Debase yourself like a slut and thank me for your pleasure.”

Pleasure? He had to be joking. I was half-fainting on the flesh he shoved in my face. His hands on my hair made me weep and now he called me filthy names and made me touch myself while my father watched his brother take what should have been his. If Father had asked me any of this—all of it—I should have done it joyfully and without hesitation. It was his right. Even pain is sweet when Father gives it. But Uncle Wade wanted to see me hurt and it was not even his right to hurt me.

The bitter wrongness of it made me break, sobbing, choking on his maleness until he jerked back and snarled,

“Damnation, Bill, make the bitch be still.”

Father’s face was suffused with deep color. He had a peculiar tightness at the front of his own trousers, and I imagined it must be his own flesh I saw straining there. But he was looking from me to Uncle Wade with a kind of broken, cold fury which I knew would bode very ill for him the moment he expressed it. So I did the only thing I could think of which might spare him his own loss of place in my Ceremony.

“Stop,” I begged, “please—no!” as he advanced on me, the color deepening, his flesh twitching like a living thing, “please don’t make me, I don’t want to—”

When next he thrust into my mouth again, I no longer tried to control my misery. I sobbed openly, tears flowing, and when he jammed the thing into the very depths of my throat I retched around it.

I should be sorry to have shamed Father by voicing refusal, my rebellion was evidence of his poor leadership, but before I could even regret having shamed him, the miracle happened.

As Uncle Wade shoved himself brutally to the back of my throat, as I gagged around him and fought his advances and he struck my face once more, the size of him swelled, and stiffened, and hardened and— _erupted_. In my mouth, down my throat, so that the thick emission spilled out my mouth and down my chin. He jerked back, gasping, so I could double over and choke the thick, bitter stuff down as best I could. Even half-suffocated on Uncle Wade’s flesh, I had presence of mind to understand this was some manner of gift he had given that it would be blasphemous to reject.

It was some moments before I came to myself and could look up.

Had I done it? Was this the end? 

I did not understand what I saw.

Uncle Wade looked furious. Cousin Enoch looked surprised, but not much else. Father looked surprised and . . . pleased? I didn’t understand why. But then I looked to Grandfather, and saw he was looking at me in a way no man had ever looked at me before: as if I were somebody who mattered. It was almost like he was looking at another man.

“Well, well,” he said softly. “Bill, it would seem your daughter has . . . brought an end to Wade’s role in the ceremony.”

I did not understand. I looked from Enoch to Uncle Wade, who was red-faced and furious, to Father, who was giving me that look I still did not fully understand.

“End?” I echoed.

“Father!” Uncle Wade growled, but Grandfather held up a silencing palm.

“You have finished, Wade. It’s William’s turn.”

I still did not understand why, but I at last understood what was happening: it was Father’s turn. Father’s turn to claim me, my turn to yield to him, and for some reason Uncle Wade was to have no more part in it. It was so impossible and perfect a thing that I could only stare as Father came forward, and stood before me, tall and strong.

“Unbutton my trousers, Melody,” he said softly, and it was a gift, that he could give me this command and I was bound to obey.

My hands shook. I could barely manage the button. When at last I succeeded, the great size of what sprang free took my breath away.

I should have been frightened. This was more than Uncle Wade had obliged me to accept. But for Father . . . I looked up at him, hoping he could see in my face that I would do it. I would do whatever he said. He smiled. He saw.

“Melody,” he said, “lie on your back on the bench, and spread your legs.”

I obeyed at once. Not the punishment position, but feminine supplication, belly up, legs spread wide, my feet just barely touching the floor, my most secret place opened to his gaze as a sacred offering.

Would he strike me, as Uncle Wade had? I almost hoped he would. I would bear it bravely for Father. I would take the pain he gave me and thank him for it. I would be Father’s good girl, I just knew I would.

But Father did not strike me. He knelt, instead. He warmed me with his breath, and his fingers brushed with feather lightness over the soft curls of my . . .

“Father?”

His gentle touch paused.

“Mmm?”

“What—what is its name? The . . . What you’re . . .” I tried to remember Grandfather’s words. “The place I must offer, when you demand it.”

I could hear Father’s smile when he spoke.

“Your maidenhead, Melody. It’s your maidenhead, which I will make into your womanhood. And it is the most precious gift you can give me, unless, by the will of God, tonight you also . . .” But he did not finish the sentence. Instead he rose up over me, so strong and sure. I thrilled at the sight. He braced his hands on the bench at either side of my head, and kissed my lips. I accepted it all, grateful, quiet and uncomplaining, like a daughter should.

I would be pleasing to him. I would yield to Father joyfully, and he would have no complaint. I looked at him the whole time as he reached down to the space between us, as his wide knuckles brushed my maidenhead, and as the thick, hot, hardness of his manhood pressed me there, pushed, parted . . . and pierced.

I screamed. I am grieved to own it. My scream was shameful. I should not have done it. I was horrified to hear it rise up between us, a cry of rebellion, a rejection of my father’s own body. But he was so good to me in my weakness! So kind and forgiving. He pinched my nipple only once, to chastise. I took the pain sweetly, in silence, and only when he released me did I speak.

“I am sorry, Father,” I whimpered.

“I know it. But you must receive me joyfully, Melody,” he warned. “There is no other way that is good.”

I nodded, tears trickling down the side of my face, ashamed to suffer such weakness in the presence of Grandfather and Uncle Wade and Enoch.

“I am sorry,” I whispered again, and he kissed my face, kissed the tears away, and smiled. I smiled back, through the lingering sting, and then—I gasped. He had started to move.

Not like Uncle Wade, clumsy and rough. Not like my own hand, at Uncle Wade’s order, clutching at a place I had no right to claim for myself. Father’s movements were strong and sure. Deep, so painfully deep, splitting me wide within, and then out, away, so I could grieve his absence. And in, again, to the part of me that had only ever been his. The part he had made, that had made me his daughter, using the part that, I now knew, he had used to make me.

And I cried, again, as he thrust inside me, but I swear it was not the pain that made me do it. It was not rebellion. I think Father knew it was not. Mine were sobs of gratitude, at the rightness of it, at the way my submission to Father had given me the gift of his claim on me. Had made it possible for me to give him that claim.

I smiled up at him through my tears. I wanted him to see my joy. To know that I would take pain for him, would receive it meekly and in a way that was good and pleasing to him. He rewarded me with a smile, and bent to kiss me. Then—well, then he did push harder. Fast. Too fast, even, so that I was roughly pushed along the punishment bench, but that was all right, because it was Father pushing me, so I was able to take it. It was right for Father to hurt me if he wanted, and I was proud to bear it for him.

When I cried a little, he kissed me sweetly. When my breath came quick and short, he reached his wide, strong hand down between us to stroke a strange, building quiver into me there. It was not unpleasant. That was how I understood that this was part of my gift. For taking the pain, for taking him, Father was touching me with his hand. Rubbing the special place where we joined.

Then, with a mighty thrust, he pressed deep inside of me. Too deep. Deeper than I even knew he was able to, to a place within me that I was confident would remember him forevermore. For a moment, it was too much and there was only pain. I would have screamed, I don’t deny it, but he never gave me the chance. His mouth covered mine and he swallowed the sound. Then his hand pressed some aching point at the top of my womanhood, and the most amazing thing happened of all.

An explosion, inside me. A contortion of pleasure and spasms, my gratitude embodied in the point of our joining, so that my womanhood clutched at him, and made my pleasure known. Then he contorted too, and something surged and leaped, so that everything he gave me multiplied and flooded me and he fell onto my body, heavy, claiming, and made me see how small and helpless I was beneath his weight.

His protection.

And it was good.

* * *

Cousin Enoch rode me after that. I cried, because it hurt, and that seemed to please him. He made me thank him for teaching me, which I did, through my tears. I would not let him see the pain was as much due to him not being Father as it was at him using the tender, aching space inside me Father had so roughly used. I did not have the special feeling again, and Cousin Enoch did not spill into my womanhood, but rather thrust into my throat until I gagged on him and he gave me his gift in that way.

Then they ringed around me, all the men who had made me a woman, and I knelt before them to say my prayer of gratitude for being given such men for my protection.

“Amen,” said they, the only time men will ever agree with a woman’s prayer, when she is the woman they have newly made. Then they left to clean and dress themselves, and I was left alone, to marvel at what had been done.

A woman! I, a woman. Was it true? I felt different, certainly. Sticky and sore, and a little scared to move. Even so I might have doubted it, but when I closed my eyes I could see the look on Father’s face when he emptied himself inside me, and I knew. I was Woman, and Father had made me so.

I stayed in the room all night. You are supposed to, when it’s your Ceremony. You are expected to pray when you are not being used, but I did fall asleep a little, and when I woke again it was dark all around. At first I could not fathom what noise had stirred me, but then I looked up, and saw Father.

He stood over me, smiling, and put out his hand.

“My daughter,” he sighed, pulling me up and folding me into his arms. “You made me so proud, my Melody. So proud tonight. What a wonder you are. I could not ask for a finer woman to give in marriage than you.”

The knife-stick of grief I felt at those words made me press closer to him. Of course Father could now entertain suitors for me. I had almost forgot that part. Mayhap I would be wed in as little as a week, if a suitable offer were made.

I knew better than to ask if it had to be so. It has always been so, and always will be. But I had yielded myself to my father, as I longed to, and that memory would sustain me well into the marriage where he would send me next.

I smiled up at him to tell him so. Then a thought occurred to me.

“Father—Uncle Wade. Why did he not . . ?” I hesitated. “Why did he not claim my maidenhead? Or didn’t he want it?”

Father twinkled at my confusion.

“Your Uncle Wade greatly desired your maidenhead but he spent himself too soon. The pleasure he took in chastising you, and that which you gave him by begging him to stop, did not permit him the endurance needed to complete you. So the task fell to me.”

He kissed the top of my head.

“And great was my joy.”

“Mine, too,” I sighed, and snuggled close.

For a moment I wondered if he had come to tell me that, since the Ceremony had finished, I might actually go to bed. The softness of my pillow beckoned and the embrace of my coverlet had never seemed so sweet. But instead he was looking at the punishment bench, and I felt a burgeoning hardness press into my stomach, at the front of his pyjama pants.

Oh.

“Father . . ?”

He stared down at me in the moonlight, with that expression on his face. The expression a man makes when he longs to press inside you. Its carnal name is desire, but we do not call it that. When a man looks like that on a woman to whom he has right, it is not desire: only summons. And a woman summoned must obey.

“Get on the bench, Melody.”

I trembled.

My body was sore. It ached with the memory of their claim on it, and was wracked with fatigue. I desired my bed above all else, but my father desired me, and refusing my father is not an option. It never has been. I love Father as a daughter should. My heart is yielded to him, and now, on the night of my Ceremony, until the sun rose my body was yielded, too.

I smiled shyly up at him, and hoped the shadows hid my tears.

“Yes, Father. Thank you, Father.”

And I meekly took my place on the bench.


End file.
